


Carry Me Home

by zoeburchard



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Boys In Love, F word, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, actual straight up homophobia, one time theo carries boris, set all across time, three times boris carries theo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeburchard/pseuds/zoeburchard
Summary: Three times Boris carries Theo and one time Theo carries Boris."“What the mother fuck, Boris!?” He practically jumped out of my arms, onto the pavement where he promptly fell on his ass.I shrugged, “You were shit faced, falling all over. You trip and pass out, had to get you home somehow.”Eying me suspiciously up through his glasses he pushed himself to his unsteady feet brushing himself off. I gave him a look that said What? Did nothing wrong! And he seemed to understand.Pushing his his glasses up, he looked down, almost shyly, and said, “Oh— uh, thanks I guess.”"
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Carry Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably garbage. I wrote it on a plane, typed it up, half assed edited it. It needed to get out of my brain so here it is. Hopefully it's at the very least enjoyable. Thank you for reading! :)

  1. _The Night We Met_



I carried the umbrella over us, protecting myself and my new companion from the sun beating down hot above us- we both welcomed the shade. We kicked our shoes through the golden sand as we trudged towards my house.

On the bus that morning, I saw him before he ever saw me. From my seat comfortably situated towards the front-middle of the bus, I caught a glimpse of his face when he stepped up the stairs, his despairing eyes, a heaviness in him I recognized. My curiosity piqued, I sat up straighter eager to study the new addition to our school. Seeing his round glasses I smiled to myself thinking he looked an awful lot like Harry Potter. I imagined if his sandy hair hand’t covered his forehead a lightning shaped scar would appear. He was small and dressed better than any of the other kids, who mostly wore clothes nearly resembling beach attire. I recognized a boy out of place with the unmistakable sadness and his button down shirt- like me in all black and longing for a climate not so cruel, he didn’t belong here.

I hadn’t been so intrigued by a single person since arriving in Las Vegas. There was a lazy ease to the people of the desert. Nothing went deeper than the skin, a herd of sheep all following some broken down version of the American Dream. I kept to myself, only socializing the bare minimum to get by. It’s not that I couldn’t make friends, just didn’t have the desire to try. I can’t fully explain what it was that intrigued me so much about Theo Decker- perhaps I recognized our mutual pain in his body language or the intensity of his eyes. Or that I wanted to accept the challenge of trying to get his nearly-scowling face to light up. I rarely thought five inches outside of myself, but whatever it was, it had me staring at him all the way to school.

Sitting towards the front of the bus naturally left him on a bench seat all alone. Leaning his head on the window, I could see earbuds in his ears. Nothing he did indicated he was enjoying whatever he listened to but for his foot under the seat gently tapping along to the beat. As he listened it seemed as though he was taking inventory of everything around him- cataloguing each person, every detail about them, learning them without meeting them and writing their stories in his mind. The way he watched so intently- it was obvious. As he wrote their stories, I guessed at his.

When we got off the bus together that same afternoon I hadn’t been satisfied- I wanted to know who he was, this strange boy with the sad eyes. I invited him over for drinks- he seemed as curious about me as I was about him- which was perhaps not the best idea, though it had felt right in the moment. Though he readily accepted it, from the first drink I could tell this was not something he did as regularly as my halfway-alcoholic self. But there we were, sitting in my sand filled pool drinking beer, talking until he sun died out.

He told me about his mother, I told him about mine. It was clear he wasn’t used to talking as much as I encouraged him to, but with each question I asked, and each beer I provided, he spoke more and more about his past, his family, his guilt.

From the moment he had said ‘Fuck you’ to me, all bark no bite, I knew we were going to be close friends. While we were entirely different people, our histories so vastly opposite, inside we were the same. The more he told me of the characters in his life, the sets and scenes, the more I saw the overlap. He had been moved around emotionally, I, physically. Our mother’s had been torn from our lives and our fathers may as well have not been there at all. We shared the heaviness of what should have been a carefree childhood, and was anything but. His tone, his body language- not moving away from me when I sat down next to him on the bus- and his clear curiosity about the world, about me- I knew our souls were bound together, in one way or another.

I had lost track of how much he was drinking, never really started keeping track, only knowing that I had consumed much more than him. I started to notice he was in bad shape when he kept going on about how he couldn’t carry them both- him and his mother. We were laying on the steps of the pool as the stars had come out, the light and heat of the sun long gone. We had completely lost track of time.

“Boris, we just met but you _know_ me. I don’t _know_ you.” He started to cry. “ _I_ don’t know _you._ But _you_ know _me._ ” He jabbed at his chest in what felt like a violent gesture. “You see the shape of these stars?” He pointed into the sky. I had no clue what he was talking about. “That’s her. That’s my mother, Boris. She’s the whole sky and all the stars.” His words were slurred, his eyes in the sky. He watched above and I watched him, tears silently falling over his cheeks. I gently nudged him with my foot from the stair above him, his head turning to gaze, not at me, but straight through me. There was a sweetness, an innocence about him I didn’t understand, but I wanted to.

First he crawled over me to get to the top of the steps. Then he tried to stand up, too many drinks deep. Legs like jelly, he began to wobble standing precariously close to the edge of the pool. I threw myself up the stairs, a little dizzy myself, before jumping to my feet and luckily he fell back into my arms instead of face first into the cement pool.

“Think you are drunk, Potter. Look at you!” I tried to help him back on his own feet, but he just collapsed in on himself, a pile on the ground. I couldn’t help but laugh. I pulled him up, grabbing his arm and throwing it over my shoulder, holding his wrist securely around my neck, so my other arm could brace him at the waist. “You can walk, yes?”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see his head rolled towards me, glasses askew, eyes glassy, pupils dilated. He couldn’t see me, I knew. Gripping his waist tightly, I reached over and straightened his glasses. “Okay. Hang on.”

We stumbled through the house, banging into walls, barely making it to the front door, Potter struggling to stay on his feet, me struggling to hold him. He was a good deal smaller than me in those days, but I had small arms, no muscle at all. The day had been a wild ride- seeing Potter for the first time, getting to know him and now trying to take some kind of care of him.

When he tripped on the threshold of the front door and took us both down- I cradled him to me in a protective gesture leaving a nasty bruise on my hip and shoulder- I knew there was only one option; to get him home. Getting down on one knee, I reached down and lifted his limp body, one arm under his knees, one arm across the length of his shoulder blades. As I said, then I was not so strong as I am now, and all the weight of his world, the heaviness I saw in his eyes I felt in my arms. The dark and dusty walk ahead of me would be long.

I stood, hugging his body to mine with all my strength, knowing I could not drop him. The alcohol had my head dizzy, but I had been drinking for years at this point, pretty used to a little spinning. Upon arriving at the end of my driveway it dawned on me that I did not, in fact, know where he lived. We had only properly met hours ago and here I was carrying him to a home I only vaguely knew the location of. He had mentioned the neighborhood, a neighborhood near mine, so I began to walk hoping he would wake up before we got there. He had completely passed out. I was only a little bit concerned. Making a mental note, I decided that we ought to pace ourselves in the future, maybe add some food to the mix, or at least some bread. Potter was clearly a lightweight and I couldn’t be carrying him home every night.

The dark stillness of the night left a pleasant feeling inside me. The empty houses all around suggested a peaceful, untouched sort of world that I had never known. It was a though my transitory life for once was grounded. Potter, my first friend in Vegas, was someone to keep me tied to this place. Looking down at his small frame in my arms, I knew we’d have many more glorious nights and adventures together. The loneliness I had grown accustomed to subsided just a little as I imagined everything we could get up to together.

I was getting closer to the neighborhood I was pretty sure was his. Potter groaned a small groan that sounded like he was in pain, probably a migraine level headache. “You awake, Potter?” I spoke quietly as I shifted my arms, trying to gather him up higher. He had begun to slip from my very tired arms. “Don’t think I can carry you much further.”

He groaned in response and turned his head into my shoulder, hiding his sleeping eyes. Sighing, I pressed forward- I could make it a little further.

When I reached the top of his street, I tried to examine him for any sign of life. Looking up at the street it was exactly like mine. Rows of houses that looked like carbon copies of each other. I shook him a little. “Potter.” Softly at first. Nothing. “Theo.” I spoke louder. He stirred, eyes searching. I smirked and laughed at how confused he was, taking in his surroundings trying to get his bearings.

“What the mother fuck, Boris!?” He practically jumped out of my arms, onto the pavement where he promptly fell on his ass.

I shrugged, “You were shit faced, falling all over. You trip and pass out, had to get you home somehow.”

Eying me suspiciously up through his glasses he pushed himself to his unsteady feet brushing himself off. I gave him a look that said _What? Did nothing wrong!_ And he seemed to understand.

Pushing his his glasses up, he looked down, almost shyly, and said, “Oh— uh, thanks I guess.” His eyes found mine. Lips turned down, a crease forming between his eyebrows, his hands shot up to hold his head, in agony, “My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

“Ha! Yes, too much beer, not enough food. Drink water, take aspirin.” I pat him on the back in a friendly gesture. He flinched at the contact. “Can you walk?”

Taking a few weaving steps to show me he was capable, “Of fucking course I—“ he was interrupted by his own body betraying him, grasping at his mouth, quickly turning away from me and emptying the contents of his stomach on the sidewalk. In between his heaving he managed to spit out, “Fuck” retching “You” puking “Boris.” Vomiting all over his own shoes. I couldn’t stop laughing, nearly rolling around on the ground, as he cursed me all the while spewing watery vomit everywhere.

“Okay, Potter?” He glared at me- not yet used to his nickname- with dark eyes, though smiling underneath. “Need help?” I extended a hand to which he swatted away. I put both hands up in the air, “Alright! Independent drunk, okay. Which house is yours?”

He turned in place slowly, scanning the houses around us. “Shit.” Laughter erupted from deep within him, a laughter that had been found in a trunk in the back of his heart, a laughter that needed dusting off- a laugh that made me smile wider than I had for some time as I stood arms crossed over my chest. “I don’t even know! Look at them, Boris! They are all exactly the same. Every fucking house is the same just like all these stupid fucking people in this fucking terrible wasteland.” And there he went, back to the darkness that had drawn me to him in the first place, a darkness I found myself wanting to dissolve, alleviate, or just to descend deeper into together.

Slowly I reached out to pat his back and in his state he tolerated it. “You smell like shit. Let’s go. Will find it if we walk.”

Under his breath he spoke, words dripping in sarcasm, **_you_** _smell like shit_ and again I laughed. “You know, Potter, you are very entertaining. I like you.” He was tripping every other step and so I put an arm around him again to help him walk. He allowed it.

“Yeah. You’re alright, Boris.”

_2\. The Night Theo Gets Hit By a Taxi_

I could hardly believe when Potter- my Potter from Vegas!- walked into the bar. Just like that he was back in my life like we hadn’t been separated a decade. While I had been looking for him, trying to make contact to explain myself, to make things right and ease the guilt I had carried around for years, I didn’t expect it to be him that found me first. But there he was, and there was my chance to let him know- I needed him to know- that what I had done could not be traced back to him, that I was doing everything I could to retrieve his bird.

After I told him what I had done _how did he not know?_ He, by some miracle, agreed to meet me over drinks. My plan was to tell him in some small detail how we would retrieve his bird and explain my suspicions as to who might have taken it. All this in hopes that he would see we could get it back, together.

Since the moment I had walked into Hobart & Blackwell’s shop, filled with old things that smelled of past lives, and knowing Theo worked there- my heart raced and my stomach turned a little. I have made name for myself as confident and tough, also very charming. Not usually nervous, anxious. Life happens, most things are out of my control, and the things that are, I take charge and solve problems. Yet here I was, feeling like a small child, terrified and excited to see the only person I had ever considered a true and good friend. I kept imagining how he might look now. What his voice might sound like, how he kept his hair now, how he might dress. We had been so young last we saw each other. I had changed. He would no doubt be an entirely different person as well. The one thing I thought I knew for certain was that he would hate me for what I’d done. As eager as I was to see him, I was equally as terrified. But he wasn’t there in the shop that day and I thought the moment to see him again so soon was lost.

But when he walked in that bar— my lungs forgot how to work, my brain shut down, throat swelled up, sweat appeared on my brow and I was frozen to the spot. I watched him as he talked to the bartender. He appeared terribly nervous, uncomfortable, perpetually touching his round glasses. I’m sure I didn’t look much better in that moment. Would he recognize me after all this time? My shiny new teeth, meat on my bones, hair as managed as I could ever hope to get it. His name (the one I had given him) was on the tip of my tongue, my heart begging me to say it, my head stopping me every time I opened my mouth. It wasn’t until he was leaving and I felt the opportunity slipping through my fingers. Once again I thought I might lose him forever— which is what propelled me forward, dabbing my forehead with a napkin, asking the bartender if there was anything in my teeth on the way out the door, and then I was there pushing through the door, out onto the sidewalk shouting his name, “Potter!”

In the middle of the sidewalk he stopped. It must have been an entire lifetime we stood on that cement, me staring at him, him looking away. I was keenly aware of every sensation in my entire body, every place the cold air touched my exposed skin, every intersection of cloth and body. It was as though I was being held in the arms of a creature made of ice with a warm beating heart that both made me so cold but somehow comfortably warm at the same time.

Finally I felt the air expel from my lungs as he turned slowly around, the sweetest sound coming from his lips, red from the biting cold, “Boris?” I never thought my name could sound so beautiful, but there it was like a symphony serenading into my ears right down into my own heart. His voice had changed, his sense of style similar but elevated, his sandy blonde hair- just as I remembered but more well kept. Seeing him for the first time in so long was so much more than I could have hoped for and I found myself standing there, dumb grin plastered to my face like a carnival clown. It occurred to me, after staring for so long, that Potter didn’t completely hate me. I was dumbfounded as he looked back at me with a surprised sense of what might have been joy. Relief washed over me.

There had always been something with me and Potter. I was always my most honest, good self with him. We did fucked up shit, we were wild, the only one who cared for the other but still I was the best version of me with him. Even though I brought mostly bad things to him his goodness managed to slip through and effect me. So much so that after he left I realized how grounded he kept me. I was completely off the rails once he was gone- I missed him more than I thought one person could miss another.

The night we were to get drinks I waited for him on the sidewalk under a streetlamp pouring orange light over the whole corner. Back and forth I paced across the sidewalk, trying to occupy my mind with anything at all- counting cigarette butts on the ground, spots of aging chewed up gum- but it kept coming back to Theo. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the pole away from the street so I wouldn’t see Potter approaching. I slid my phone out of my pocket to check the time only to find hardly any time had passed at all. After a few moments I realized I had zoned out, staring at the ground, the rain reflecting back the lights of the cars and streetlamp.

“Boris!” Heart jumped again. I turned around slowly to see him on the other side of the street, long jacket, no umbrella, waving to me, not joyfully, but not unhappy to see me either. There he was, cars rushing past between us, rain soaking his hair and clothes. I couldn’t help but smile, nerves suddenly gone, as he removed his glasses to wipe off the raindrops only to make a complete mess of them by trying to dry them off with his already drenched overcoat. He put the glasses back on, surely blind. “I’m coming!” He shouted again.

I grinned and shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to look normal and not over excited. He adjusted his glasses once more, looked to the left and then started running across the street. Before I knew what had happened he was gone. The door of a taxi cab flew open in a shot, a man running out around to the front of the car. “Are you okay!?”

My heart stopped as I looked down at the ground in front of the car. “Theo—“ his name was barely a whisper as I felt my body hurling forward towards him.

Kneeling down in a puddle that must have been two inches deep with water my hands hovered not sure if I should touch him incase anything was broken. “Theo, are you okay? You are hurt? Theo?” Unsure of what to do with my hands I brushed some stray hair away from his forehead. “Theo, speak to me!”

“Oh shit man, shit. I—Uh… what do we do? You know this guy? Shit, shit shit.” The cab driver was hysterical, pacing back and forth in front of the car, splashing water on us every time he passed.

“Dumbfuck, call 911! And stop fucking walking!” I was livid at him for being so careless, but too concerned with Theo to expend too much energy in his direction. I looked down at his soft face, so much more angular than when we were kids. I couldn’t see his eyes. His glasses were undamaged, but covered in rain and mud. Suddenly there was a strange sound. “Theo?”

A roar of laughter erupted from the man lying on the ground. “Fuck, Boris. I’ve never heard you say my name so many fucking times!” His body was shaking with laughter. “Fuck!”

My head fell into my hands and I wanted to tear my face off. The fucking idiot. “You are fine, then, fucking dumbass?” I wanted to hit him or kiss him. 10 seconds ago I had been terrified half to death and now this idiot was laughing, lying on the ground in front of a taxi on a New York street, drenched to the bone and covered in grime.

“Oh god! Is he okay? Are you okay? Oh my god, do I still call 911?” The cab driver was beat red and probably sweating, though it was impossible to tell with all the rain.

“You are single dumbest fuck I have ever seen. Still have not called police? What the fuck? You hit a man! Should sue you!” I looked down at Theo, “Potter, you want to sue?” He shook his head through his fits of laughter, “You are fine, though? Anything broken?” The cab driver looked nervously down at us as Theo moved all his limbs to make sure he was okay. I gently touched his abdomen, “Does this hurt?” He shook his head again.

“He’s fine!?” I hardly think I’d ever seen someone look so relieved.

“You are luckiest mother fucker in world. Had you hurt my friend badly, police could not-“ Theo’s hand shot up and covered my mouth. I eyed him sideways and pulled his arm off of me, “Go now, idiot. Look in front of you next time!”

With that, I slipped an arm under Theo’s legs and another around his back as I lifted him up out of the street and over to a bench in front of the bar we were intended to meet. The rain made him considerably heavier than I could have imagined, in addition to his fully grown and seemingly muscular body, I barely made it from the street to the bench without dropping him.

Once I had him settled on the bench, sitting upright, arm over my shoulder as I sat facing him, I asked, “Potter, honestly, you are unhurt?”

Blue eyes darted in my direction more serious, almost annoyed, “Yes, Boris, really. I’m fine. Bruised, maybe.”

“How—what happened? One minute you are there, next you are gone!”

He took his glasses off and looked down at his hands like he was about to laugh again— adrenaline makes you do strange things—“My glasses, I couldn’t really see- the rain.” He gestured up to the sky and half smirked. “The fucking rain.” Then he looked back to me. As if in that moment he finally noticed his arm was still around my neck, he snatched it back like he’d touched fire. Eyes down again, “He can’t have been going more than 10 miles an hour. Bumped me just enough to push me over.”

Theo was Theo- dumb ass to the core, but I was glad he was okay. “Was tiny bit afraid it was serious. Now you have had laugh, I have had scare- shall we drink?” At that his eyes met mine and I knew it would be a good night.

_3\. Theo Sick On My Couch_

We didn’t make it very far into my Antwerp apartment. It was difficult to get him to agree to come in the first place as he felt he urgently needed to get back to his fiancé and Mr. Hobie. But there we were, practically falling through the door, Potter so sick he could barely keep his head up. The stress, the overdose- he wasn’t taking it all well, his body was angry with him.

“Fuck, Potter. You are too tall for this.” He leaned heavy into me as I pushed through to the couch, the closest soft object I could reach. “See, good thing we came here. Would not want to be sick and disgusting around pretty snowflake and old poofter.”

“Boris, it’s freezing in here.” He spoke through chattering teeth, sweating profusely, eyes closed in agony on the couch. My apartment was scarcely decorated and not much comfort, but it certainly wasn’t cold. Gyuri had installed one of those high tech thermostats that you can control from your phone and always made sure my place was a pleasant 72 degrees when I arrived.

“Apologies. One moment.” I ran back to my bedroom, a bit of a mess from the last time I had been there, snatching the blanket off the bed, breathing it in to make sure it was clean, that the smell wouldn’t remind him of our days in Vegas living in our own filth.

I tucked the fabric around him as he pulled the edge up to his face like a small child. He curled his long legs up until he was in a tight, blanketed ball. I was never much of a care taker, never really knew much about healing or medicine. I felt a little lost, but Potter was depending on me to make him better- or maybe I was depending on myself, not entirely sure he wanted to be better. In the kitchen I rummaged through the cabinets, unable to find much of anything at all. There was tea and a box of sugar.

A few minutes later I circled back to the couch with a fresh cup of tea for Theo but he had fallen fast asleep. I placed the tea on the coffee table and sat down on edge of the simple wooden structure. Unable to help myself, I reached out and touched his clammy forehead as I had seen people do in films. His head felt like fire.

I had told him to wait for me. I had texted him. So why did he have to do these things? I was sure when I gave him the little bag of pills that he knew his limits. He had saved us— saved me— back in the parking garage. Killing a man was hard but dying was worse and Potter had acted in self defense.

As children he was always trying to kill himself. It hurt me then the same way it hurt me now. We had been each other’s whole world back then. We took care of each other the only ways we knew how. We fought, sure, but we were always there to make sure there was some reason to keep going. At least, he was my reason. And to see him act like he mattered to no one, when he was the only person in the world that mattered to me, truly. To see him be so guilt ridden over the death of his mother to the point of ending it for himself. The nights dragging him out of the street, off the roof, sticking my finger down his throat so we wouldn’t have to call 911- these nights were the longest, hardest nights of my life.

And I hadn’t even been there for the worst of it. I told him I’d come back, but maybe I didn’t have the best track record with showing up when I say I will. The least I could do was be there for him now. I stared at the lines of his face, soft, but still carrying the heaviness Potter had possessed since we first met. Leaning forward, arm rested on my knee, I brushed the sweaty hair off his forehead and bent down to kiss the space between his eyes. If the painting was his precious thing, he was mine.

At some point I must have fallen asleep as I found myself on the floor, head leaned back against the cushions. My neck hurt like a motherfucker as I woke to the sound of my name.

Stretching my arms and massaging my neck, I re-situated myself facing Theo. “Sleep well, Potter? Feeling better?” He looked like shit, face pale, dark circles under his eyes. No light came through the windows. It must have been the early hours of the morning.

“No,” his voice was hoarse. He probably needed water. “I want to go back to sleep but your fucking couch is the most miserable piece of furniture I’ve ever tried to sleep on.”

A smile crept across my lips as I feigned offense, “Potter, you insult beautiful couch? Have spent many wonderful nights with this old friend.” I patted the worn leather like a pet dog.

Annoyance covered his face and I threw my hands in the air as I stood, “Okay okay! You can sleep in bed, but there is only the one.” This seemed to appease him, “You can stand on your own?”

His faced changed from annoyed to what was a sad sort of helplessness. “Boris, my whole body feels like I got hit by a car and then a truck was dropped on me.”

I frowned. “Is not funny. Could have killed taxi driver- fucking ass, can’t drive, fucker, I have drunk driving conviction and never hit person— on accident.”

“You know what I mean, dumbass. I want to get off this couch, but I can’t move. It hurts too much.” He rolled his head to face the couch cushions, away from me.

“You are not so small as when we were kids. You have become much taller,” I playfully squeezed his bicep, “And stronger.” He looked over his shoulder to glare at me, to which I returned a dazzling smile. I massaged my forehead considering my options. “Okay, hang on to me, yes?” I leaned down to him and he looked up at me. I pat my shoulder seeing the question in his eyes. “Arms up, Potter.” Hesitantly he wrapped his arms around my neck, his warm breath on my cheek, and I hoped he wouldn’t notice my heart rate increase. I gathered him in my arms, trying to ignore the pain that shot through my arm up into my shoulder. I had been able to remove the bullet from my arm and bandage it up with Gyuri’s help. That didn’t make the pain subside, however.

I carried him back to the bedroom- the only bed in my small residence. When he leaned his head against my shoulder, as he unconsciously had when we were children, I slowed my pace and without even thinking about it, held him instinctively tighter to my chest, a precious thing I must protect.

Laying him down in the bed, I removed his shoes and helped him out of his coat. I retrieved the blanket that had been left on the couch and draped it over him. I gave him a glass of water and told him to drink. When he was finished, I filled it up again and left it on the beside table.

He choked out a soft _thank you._ The air between us was thin, like he wanted to say something else and the words stuck in his throat just trying to breath.

My shoulders dropped as an involuntary sigh left my lips. “Good night, Potter,” I said softly. I went to leave, shutting the door behind me when I heard his voice, hardly above a whisper.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, Boris.” I pushed the door open just a crack and looked back at him, thankful that he was facing the wall instead of towards me, as I felt the fire rise in my cheeks. “I mean, it’s your bed. And we’ve slept in the same bed before.” His voice was cold and serious and it was true. We had shared a bed many times before, sometimes even more than just sleeping- nights I dreamt of often but that Potter surely had no recollection of.

“You are sure? I do not have same feelings about couch as you. Do not mind—“ he rolled over and pat the empty space next to him. I removed my clothes down to my underwear and crawled under the covers, lying on my back next to him leaving a space between us. I heard him shift to his side, but didn’t dare look. Instead I laid still with my eyes closed. His hand found the bandage on my arm from where the bullet had struck me before Potter saved my life.

I took his hand in mine, something he had recently started allowing, and looked over to see the concern in his eyes. “Is nothing. Have had worse.” Pulling the blanket down to expose my bare chest, I rolled over enough to show him a scar under my ribs where I had been stabbed years before. “See? Cannot kill old Boris so easy.”

His eyes wandered down past the scar toward my hip and I knew exactly what he had found. “Is that…?” I let my head fall back as my eyes fell shut, too tired for this conversation. “A goldfinch?”

His fingers softly traced the outline of the bird- wings spread, gold and black, simple lines, nothing like the painting- and I sucked in a sharp breath. Goose bumps rose all over my chest and his fingers stopped, burning where his skin touched mine.

I took his hand from my skin and placed it on the sheets between us. “You should sleep.” If he went any further I’d be in trouble. I never feared or suppressed who I was, I was in love with Theo, I had always been. But I couldn’t risk losing him by bringing all that into the friendship we had. A little bit of Theo in my life was better than none at all.

And yet, as we laid there, my eyes closed tight, willing sleep, I felt him shift next to me. The next thing I knew his lips were on mine, warm fevered body pressing into mine. I could scarcely breathe let alone remember to kiss him back. Before I could, he pulled away, nervous, moving to roll back to his side of the bed. “Shit- I…”

I wrapped my injured arm around his lower back, stopping him from leaving, holding him tight to me. I kissed him again before he could finish, pressing my body into his, curling my leg around his calf. His fingers slid into my hair and down my chest. I had wanted this for so long I couldn’t stop myself from touching as much of him as I could.

_4\. Boris Defends Us_

We didn’t talk about what happened in Antwerp. I went back to New York, and Boris was god-knows-where. He texted periodically, sending me photos of dogs that looked like Popper, interesting pieces of art he happened to find in his travels. We decided, in an unspoken manner, that we weren’t going to let each other disappear this time. Even if we didn’t see each other for months, we would still text and talk on occasion. But we never spoke of that night- hardly a fever dream- and I couldn’t get him out of my head.

He rarely gave any kind of warning when he’d be in town. He would just text, “drinks?” With an address and I always said yes. Even when I should be meeting with a client or had a dinner engagement with Mrs. Barbour, I would drop everything to see him. It drove me crazy how easy it was to fall back into the person I had been with him in Vegas- following along with all his whims and mad desires without a second thought.

I received one such text about seven months after we had recovered the painting. The day dragged on for so long waiting for 8pm when we were supposed to meet at our typical bar. Every customer that walked through the door made my stomach do a flip and simultaneously annoyed the shit out of me. I wanted them to be Boris and was terrified they might be, even though he had no good reason to come to the shop. It had been a few months since we had last seen each other and I was eager to be in his presence, a presence that always put me at ease.

“Potter!” He waved at me, already standing in front of the bar smoking a cigarette, which I immediately slid out from between his fingers to take a drag. “Hello to you too.”

“Hi, Boris. It’s good to see you.” _You look good_ was what I wanted to say, but it didn’t get past my throat.

He casually threw an arm across my shoulders, “Good to see you, Potter.” His smile was maddening and devastating, eyes reading me better than anyone ever could. I nervously adjusted my glasses and looked down before he let go and we made our way inside.

The bar was dark and crowded so we settled at a small table towards the back, Boris stopping to order drinks at the bar while I took a seat. I watched him talk to the bar tender, a young man that looked particularly taken with my dearest friend. Boris’ hair had grown longer, too busy to get it cut, and fell across his face. He shook the raven locks out of his eyes as he had when we were children and I felt like I was going to vomit. He had always been attractive and maybe it was the distance between us that gave me such a strong reaction, but that night he was the very picture of beauty- perfectly tailored black denim, slim fit black button down undone to his the bottom fo his sternum and his wool overcoat. So why couldn’t we talk about the thing between us- why couldn’t _I_ talk about this thing between us? The way he looked at me it was as obvious as day but I couldn’t bring myself to admit anything in so many words.

But then he turned to me, grinning, his chest pale and far too visible- I felt sick. “I’ll be right back—“ I pushed away from the table and ran to the bathroom.

Pushing through the door, locking it behind me, I leaned over the sink breathing heavily. I thought maybe cold water on my face would help, but it just made me wet and cold. The tension between us had become so heavy, the unspoken words, the feelings I couldn’t let myself speak aloud. All I wanted was to be with Boris and simultaneously never see him again for how he made me feel. It was suffocating and I needed something to push it down. I had been clean since coming back from Antwerp, however, so that was not an option.

I looked in the mirror and tried so hard to see the me I desperately wanted to let free. Red faced and nearly in tears I jumped when I heard a knock at the door. “Occupied.” I sighed deep and ran a hand through my hair, resolved to straighten myself out.

“Potter, are you okay?” Of course it was Boris. It was always Boris. His voice was slow and concerned, making my heart ache.

“Uh, yeah. One minute.” I dried my face and readjusted my glasses. The redness had died down a little, but in the dark of the bar I was sure it would’t be too noticeable. I looked more or less presentable and as ready as I could be to face Boris again. Taking a deep breath I unlocked the door. There he was, leaning on the doorframe, back to me, curls falling all across the scratched up wood. He turned to glance at me over his shoulder. The black of his shirt in perfect contrast to his creamy white skin. That was the end of me. I couldn’t do it anymore, I couldn’t pretend.

I grabbed his face right there in the doorway of the men’s bathroom of our favorite bar and I kissed him like I would die- and I very well might have- if I didn’t feel his lips on mine for one second more. I felt him smile into the kiss as he slid his arms around my waist pulling our bodies flush together. My hand trailed down his neck, feeling every inch of skin, until it landed right in the middle of his exposed chest. He leaned heavy into my touch and I let out a sound a little unseemly for a public place. He pulled back not even an inch, our noses still touching.

“What is this, Potter? You have the good shit in there and not offer some to oldest friend?” He knew I was clean. He knew I had taken nothing.

I kissed his cheek beside his nose and nuzzled into his hair. “I’m tired of dancing around whatever the fuck we are, Boris.” I paused- I wanted him to say it first. “What are we?”

He would’t give me the satisfaction, it wasn’t like him. “What do you want to be, Theo?”

“I don’t know.” Lies. I ran my thumb along his jaw line and pulled back where I could see his eyes. “I know I want to be with you, I want you in my life. And not just every few months for a day or two. I know I think about you constantly, that I would die- kill- for you and that has to mean something, right?”

His hand was in my hair pulling us back into another kiss, all tongue and teeth bringing back whispers of our childhood. “Yes.” Then he eyed me suspiciously, “You are sober, yes?”

We hadn’t even started drinking yet and I hadn’t taken any pills- not for months. I nodded.

“Good. And you want to be… boyfriends?” The excitement on his face had me giddy but the word made me cringe.

“We don’t have to call it that, but yeah. I want to be with you, really be with you.”

The hand in my hair gripped tighter pulling my head back slightly, leaving wet kisses up my neck, across my jaw and finally on my lips. “Have been waiting nine years to hear this. Yes, I will be your—“

“Boris!” He laughed loudly at my interruption. I could barely admit to myself what I felt, I didn’t need him to be saying it out loud over and over. All that mattered was that we were together, a label wasn’t necessary. With a big white smile he grabbed my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. It took me a moment before I squeezed back and let him lead us back to the table where we sat across from each other, feet tangling together underneath. We must have looked like school children sitting there talking, laughing, holding hands on top of the table.

We celebrated properly with a whole bottle of good Russian vodka, taking shots one after another like the frat boys I had seen in college. It wasn’t long before we were good and drunk, struggling to walk towards the exit on our way to Boris’ hotel, arms around each other, keeping the other from falling, when a tall man shoulder checked me as he muttered, “Faggot fairies,” under his breath.

I had never seen Boris go from 0 to 60 so fast. “What was that?” I barely registered what happened between those words and Boris suddenly having this much larger, taller man by the shoulder, shaking him violently.“The fuck you say to my friend?”

The man’s eyes were practically red with rage, “Don’t touch me, fucking faggot.”

Boris was on fire, all fists, socking him right in the mouth. I tried to pull him back but he was livid and I was drunk. I chocked it up to adrenaline strength on his part, because he was just as worse for the wear. On Boris’ second punch the man caught his fist in a giant hand, pushing him backwards, moving Boris easily in this state. When he had him up against the back wall he took a handful of Boris shirt- I heard it rip and cringed as I tried to pull the man off of him. I wasn’t strong enough. He shoved Boris into the wall so hard I felt it in my own spine.

“Boris!” I grabbed the man again, this time around the middle and tried to pull him off, but he kept swinging.

“You disgusting,” punch, “degenerate,” punch, “fucking pussy!” A crack like I’d never heard before, red flowing down over snow white skin. A bartender finally appeared and helped me pull the assailant off Boris, who slumped to the floor, seemingly unconscious. The bartender yelled at the attacker, but I was too focused on the man I was finally ready to admit I had fallen desperately in love with. I hesitated to touch him for fear of hurting him, “Boris!” He seemed to be breathing. “Boris!” I gently touched his face before moving to cradle his head in my arms. Immediately I felt a warm wetness at the back of his head and my eyes found the red streak going down the wall where he had slid. For the third time that night I wanted to vomit, but instead I screamed, “Someone call an ambulance! Now!” I heard the bartender say something about taking care of it before I started sobbing into Boris’ hair. He wasn’t responding to any sound.

A hand on my shoulder, “They are on their way, Honey.” A kind voice, but not his. “Five minutes. Is there anything I can do?”

I couldn’t deal with anyone that wasn’t him in that moment. All I could think about was three things- 1. He wasn’t conscious 2. He needed to get to the hospital and 3. I needed to get him off the dirty floor. As easily as an adult would carry a child, I scooped up his body in my arms, being careful to lean his head on my shoulder. I hugged him close to me and stood. Having sobered up, at least mentally, enough to walk in a relatively straight line to get us outside, I stood in the same spot where I had stolen his cigarette earlier, feeling the weight of him in my arms, tears streaming down under my glasses. I pressed a shaky kiss to his curls, praying to whatever might be out there that he’d be okay.

I waited two or three minutes- minutes that felt like lifetimes- before the ambulance showed up and took him away from me. As I went to climb in they asked if I was family. “Please.” The tears wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t lose him now. “Please, I’m his-“ I swallowed hard and nearly choked on the word, “I’m his boyfriend. I have to be with him. Please.” The medic clearly pitied me and stepped aside and let me in. I stayed out of their way to let them do what they could to help him on the way to the hospital. I didn’t remember doing it, but I had his hand in mine, holding it lightly, tracing over his long, bony fingers. Someone was asking me questions and I did my best to answer.

“Will he be okay? He’ll be okay, right?” He’s Boris. He had to be okay.

At some point I dozed off in the waiting room at the hospital, something I only knew because I was awoken by a soft hand falling on my shoulder. “Are you Theodore Decker?” I felt like I had been here before.

My mouth felt full of cotton and my eyes were crusty. I must have looked like shit because I felt like shit as I croaked, “Yes.” When I remembered where I was, I was immediately wide awake. “Boris. Is Boris—“

The nurse’s face was calm and reassuring, “He is stable and sleeping, dear. Would you like to see him?” I was nodding, on my feet in a flash following her down a stark white hall that smelled like death and chemicals. He didn’t belong here. He belonged in beautiful places full of life, or even dirty, grimy, disgusting places where people experienced every ounce of what life was- so long as he was breathing, I didn’t care. But this, this was not a place for Boris.

The hospital gown looked so odd on him, perhaps the most color I had ever seen on him. The blue sucked all the warmth out of his skin making him look half a zombie. My breath hitched in my throat and I felt tears welling up again. I hadn’t cried this much in years. How was it the moment I finally let myself feel what I had always known was inside me that everything would fall apart?

I sat down in the chair next to the bed. His nose had been broken and the gash in the back of his head had needed stitches. And all in defense of me. The bandages across his face and around his head broke my heart. I held his hand once more stroking the soft skin. His knuckles were bruised from colliding with the thick skull of a bigot. I brought his fingers to my lips and held them there, eyes closed, breathing him in. As I made to set both of our hands back on the bed I noticed a thin navy blue tattoo on the inside of his middle finger I had never seen before. My heart sped up as I examined it closer. In Cyrillic, in his own hand writing- unmistakably Boris- was my name. I traced over it, imagining him getting completely shit faced, writing on his own finger and telling the tattoo artist to trace it. He had plenty of tattoos in much more noticeable areas, but I had never seen this one before. I was wondering how long he’d had it when his hand jerked out of mine suddenly.

“It tickles, Potter.” His voice was quiet but with all the usual Boris charm. He slotted his fingers together rubbing away the tickling feeling. But I gently snatched back the hand I had been holding.

“Boris.”

“Am alright.” He spoke so softly I hardly recognized his voice, the usual joking tone gone, replaced by uncharacteristic seriousness. He was a mess, but he was also the most beautiful mess I’d ever seen.

“Boris, why?” I choked out, barely above a whisper.

He squeezed my hand lightly, “Why what?”

“Why did you try to fight that guy? We could have ignored him and it would have been fine,” I held his hand with both of mine, leaning into the bed to be as close to him as possible before whispering, “You could have died.”

“Theo,” music to my ears, “You spend whole life afraid to be yourself. Whole life hating you. I do not want stranger to send you back to closet, back to fear. You deserve to live life as who you are, not hiding. Out of closet, yes? I love you and will not allow ugly son of bitch to send you back to darkness.” It was the most pain I had seen in him since he told me he had taken the painting and even then there was an undertone of humor that rarely left him.

“I—“

“Shh, Potter, I know.” He looked around the sterile room, “Not here. Kiss me instead?” His eyes were big and brown and sweetly pleading. I obliged him with a kiss, careful to avoid any further injury to his scarred up face.

“I have one more question.” I waited for his nod and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow. I folded his fingers into a fist, leaving his middle finger up, flipping myself off. Gently I turned the hand so the tattoo was facing him.

“Ah, yes. You can read? Actually learned in your class?” He was clearly surprised.

“I mean, the first thing anyone learns is how to write their own name, isn’t it?” And he made a face that was to say ‘fair enough’. “So- what’s the story here?”

He laughed and looked up at the ceiling. “Had small accidental overdose- was fine!- after you left. Met a girl in school who wanted to be artist, said she would give free tattoo. After overdose, I needed reason to pace myself, needed constant reminder. Had been clean 3 days and knew only reason to not go overboard,” he paused to turn his head slowly and make eye contact, “was you.”


End file.
